He thought of the life he was being asked to leave behind, and how it had always seemed hollow and insubstantial. He’d always felt that he was destined for something else, something better or more important, but he’d never been able to discover what it was he was meant to do. And now here it was: his purpose. He was nothing more than a witness.
“What happens if I say no?”
Abby smiled, but sadly. “Who knows? There are no rules here. It’s just another form of chaos.”
“What’s in those other caves?” He motioned to the cave mouths beyond the plinth and its birds.
“They lead to other places. Maybe even other worlds or other times… probably both. This place we’re in is just a way station. I have no idea what other routes might be available, but there are hundreds of them scattered throughout these caves and tunnels. All those hummingbirds originally belonged somewhere in there. Now they’re lost in Loculus, just like the rest of us.”
Without another thought, Marc nodded, stepped forward and knelt down at the foot of the plinth. It seemed natural, as if long ago — perhaps in another lifetime — he’d been trained to do exactly this. He wasn’t sure, but the two birds seemed to respond to his approach. Their wings beat harder, their beaks looked stronger, and their colours were far brighter than they had been only seconds before. The shattered stone plinth began to mend itself.
He felt the weight of a hand on his shoulder, and then another as it enclosed the first. Five hands clutched him, thanking him and saying goodbye. He did not turn around. There was no need. This was his station — he belonged here, in this little place. He always had.
For the first time in his life, Marc felt useful. He was glad.
He’d hate to have made another mistake.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
ROYLE FELT IMMENSE pressure in his lower back as he held onto the small, soft hand. When Abby Hansen had dropped into the hole, he’d bent over and reached out instinctively, trying to save her. His flailing grasping fingers had come into contact with something, so he’d tightened his grip. But the hand he held did not feel right… there was something wrong with it.
When he looked down now, braced above the opening with one foot on either side of the hole, he wasn’t sure whose hand he had hold of. He shifted his position, gripped tightly with both hands, and pulled. A small, dark shape began to rise up from the depths of the hole, covered in black leaves. The leaves formed a layer — a skin. They coated the figure, making it seem even smaller, compressed.
He tugged as hard as he could and the figure emerged, popping out like something being born. He thought of Vanessa, and the unborn child they had made together… he felt sick, wasted. His energy dipped dramatically.
He stepped away from the hole, hauling the body out and shoving it aside. It was damp, slimy. Unclean.
He looked at his hands. They were covered in those mulch-like black leaves. He wiped them on his trouser legs. The body stirred. Leaves came away, falling to the floor and making a soft, slippery sound. Royle went down onto his knees and stared at the figure. It was inchoate, not quite complete: a stunted child’s body with an oversized, beaked head. The limbs were thin and wasted; the hands were three-fingered claws. He reached out and grabbed the mask, tearing it away… there was nothing beneath: just a shapeless mush of black leaves and a lot of tiny, fragile bones, as if a flock of birds had died in that mess.
The figure began to shred, parts of it slithering away and liquefying. Royle sat down and watched as it was reduced to a thick, black slime on the carpet. The last thing it did was reach out and hold his hand.
“You didn’t make it,” he said. “You couldn’t get through. We stopped you… somehow they stopped you.”
He stood and turned away, then, as an afterthought more than a calculated act, he turned back and kicked at the remains of the mound at the centre of the room, destroying the structure that Abby Hansen had so painstakingly made in honour of her missing child. There was no longer a hole in the floor. He could see no evidence of the route by which Abby Hansen had travelled… she was gone; her point of access had closed up, like a wound scabbing over. He wondered if she would ever return, if he would ever see her again.
Erik Best’s body lay a few feet away, its ruined face turned away from him. He shook his head. “You stupid bastard…” He walked away, left the room, and went downstairs.
Outside, Royle stood in the street and surveyed the damage. It was chaos out there. Sirens were going off, emergency vehicles were entering the estate from all angles; alarms blared, creating more panic. People were running, standing in groups, or cowering in gardens and doorways. A well-known local drunk was standing in his doorway, waving an empty bottle and ranting about sea cows.
All around, huge, thick-bodied trees had burst through the earth, houses and buildings had tumbled, walls had shattered, exploded out into the street, and cars were overturned and ablaze. Water sluiced across the road, discharging from a burst water main. He spotted a few dead bodies: in the gutters, in gardens, even one slumped over the bonnet of a car.
It would take a long time — perhaps years — to figure out exactly what had happened here, but whatever had occurred, it was over. It was done. Something had tried to come through, and it had failed.
Uniformed officers were running around in a panic; they were not trained to deal with something like this. The news crew was trying to film everything and nothing. The whole place resembled a battlefield immediately after the fighting had ceased, or the site of some terrorist atrocity. He’d missed it all, but in some ways he’d witnessed more than anyone else. He just wished that he understood the things he had seen.
He glanced up at the ever-present shape of the Needle. The sky was clear; the birds had flown. A few of them had gathered around the tip of the tower block, as if they were waiting for something to happen. The outline of the building seemed to tremble for a moment, as if a detonation had occurred inside.
From the corner of his eye, he saw a quick, dark shape scurry across the road, but when he looked directly at it there was nothing there but what seemed like a dusty shadow. Nearby, a scarecrow lay in the gutter, its torso shredded, the stick that had supported it snapped in two. It was crawling slowly along the side of the road, heading towards him. Royle stood with his legs shoulder-width apart, wishing that he had a gun. Everything out here was like a medieval nightmare, an image from a biblical painting of demons and monstrosities, of impossible things.
The scarecrow was close now. He couldn’t move. He felt like kneeling down and waiting for it to take him. His legs began to shake. Tears filled his eyes.
The black shape he’d glimpsed earlier shot across the road and hit the scarecrow, rolling it on the road surface. He couldn’t make out what it was, despite the fact that it was only a few feet away from him. The creature’s form was not solid, as if it were made of thought rather than matter. He thought of dusty rooms, empty larders, and buildings where old people went to die, lining up patiently to see the Reaper…
The scarecrow was torn apart as he watched. Then, as he turned away, he caught sight of the thing that had killed it — the thing was visible only at the edge of his vision, not head-on. It resembled old, ancient, papyrus tatters invested with a form of energy. Then, all too soon, it was gone, vanished into the air like a memory. People ran and screamed. The drunken sea cow man — now sitting on his doorstep — started to laugh hysterically.
Whatever that thing was, it had saved him.
Detective Superintendent Sillitoe ran up to Royle. He was hatless, with a shocked expression on his face. “What happened here?” He looked to Royle for some form of explanation, but it was futile. Nobody knew anything.